Before dawn, the two Rangers departed for the King’s court in Capitol City. The two rode hard all morning and reached the castle walls that afternoon. The massive doors to the stronghold stood open.
Tall walls of stone and masonry surrounded the castle; small guard towers jutted above the parapets at regular distances. As they passed through another high gate, they came into the outlying district. Many residents of Capitol City lived in the outer court; it was the proper place for commoners and average citizens who chose to live under the direct protection of the royal monarchy. They passed by several other buildings and structures, including guards’ quarters and open-air markets. Near a market, a small, rickety theater stage stood with its canopy rigged to shield a performing troupe against the sun if any were brave enough to bring in a performance.
The capital of Jand was a glorious city, much like Grinden, though slightly smaller. Although it was fully walled and protected, it lacked Grinden’s appeal; the capital’s focus was more on the business of the crown and politics and much less concerned with the industry and commerce that kept the local population alive. The place did not seem self-sufficient to Rashnir. It bothered him because, no matter how well fortified an army was, it could still be starved out.
Rogis pointed to the vacant stage as their horses trotted by it. “They often do a show at noontime, something to entertain the people during the mid-day break… at least they used to. I heard that King Harmarty eliminated the siesta period in the interest of ‘greater productivity.’ Of course, productivity’s decreased. Harmarty’s father instituted the show time as a way of boosting morale, and it worked great. I wonder how many, or how few, ‘Harmarty jokes’ were told on that stage before the local troupe’s eviction.” Or execution? Neither wanted to suggest it, but that might have been an option, too. They continued on, meandering purposefully through Capitol City.
Rashnir followed his mentor through the next walled section where a guard station filtered out the peasants and parsed the riff-raff from the higher caste. This section was exclusive. Composed of the nicer accommodations in the city, only upper class citizens were granted access. Businesses didn’t exist within this inner ring, only establishments that serviced political business or provided some other function of personal interest to those living in the upper echelon.
The main entry of the royal castle rose before them as they approached. The reluctant duo lashed their horses to the designated posts and walked inside. A handful of guards who had shadowed them through the courtyard ever since entering Capitol City branched off as the Rangers entered the main castle hall.
Inside the doorway, a solemn majordomo met them and beckoned that they follow him through the corridors. He silently led them to Harmarty’s antechamber. Rashnir tried to get the servants name, but he indicated via hand motions that he’d had his tongue cut out.
“No talkin’ out of turn in the King’s presence, eh?” Rogis muttered with a disgusted sigh.
The servant nodded, catching Rogis’s gripe, and opened a tall door for the Rangers. He closed it behind them with a half-hearted bow.
King Harmarty’s lavish chamber looked more like a circus than a royal hall. Cushions adorned empty patches of free ground; concubines and other sorts of harlots lay strewn out upon them and the dregs of Jandan culture, friends of the King, lay with them. Many of the servant women in the hall sported a variety of bruises or marks but hid them as best as able with hastily applied face paint and blushes. If it weren’t for the well-armed and seasoned guards that intermingled amongst them, the hall could have been mistaken for a harem.
Rashnir and Rogis’s entry had been obvious and no one announced their arrival; the servant with no tongue could not make any such an announcement. The king lay sprawled upon his throne in utter boredom. He paid them no mind. Everyone else in the room, however, heeded their presence as they approached Harmarty’s throne. They carried themselves with respect and poise—something unseen in the hall for a long season.
Rogis, wearing a disgusted look on his face, walked boldly to the elevated seat at the center point of the room. “Harmarty…”
“Why has there been no announcement of my guests?” King Harmarty interrupted him. He shifted his gaze to a large, muscled man near the throne. His exposed skin boasted many old, gnarled battle wounds; his head, shorn clean, displayed a network of tattooed and dyed scars—undoubtedly meant to look either beautiful or terrifying. “Rutheir,” the King called, “my servant has apparently not learned his lesson since you last educated him. Go and kill him, then select a new attendant for me.” Harmarty’s eyes burned with wild, sadistic glee as he finally turned to gaze upon his guests.
Rutheir passed by them; a smug look pasted to his face. His twisted grin turned up the edge of his gold nose ring; the jewelry bounced slightly as he dutifully exited the room on heavy strides.
“Now, what can I do for you, my dear Rogis?” Harmarty reeked of a twisted aura. He stood and stretched with a yawn. Sallow skin, blanched by such infrequent exits from his hall of personal mirth, contrasted against his tiny, dilated eyes—they’d become accustomed to torchlight rather than sunlight. Despite the king’s wiry frame, a paunch had developed in his midsection and his hair and skin betrayed his lack of personal hygiene.
Harmarty turned full circle, gathering his royal robes about him like a child’s security blanket. He sat back upon his throne and gave his guests his full attention.
Rogis kept his own frame squared to Harmarty. “We are here to answer your summons.”
Harmarty shifted his gaze. “I did not summon you, Rogis, though I half-expected you might appear with Rashnir, due to your personal relationship and mentorship.”
Rolling his eyes, Rashnir stated, “I am here to answer your summons.”
“Yes…I can see that. The much vaunted Rashnir of Rogis’ Rangers. Tales of your exploits have become quite popular among the commoners. Rogis and Rashnir: the plunderers of monster’s caves, the rescuers of kidnapped lasses, the liberators of besieged trade lines, the victors of contests, and the friends of common folk. The stories forget to mention ‘the man who stole the sun from their King.’”
Rashnir gave a quizzical look in response. “I have taken nothing from you, King of Jand.”
Harmarty leapt to his feet like a taunted guard dog. “LIAR!” he barked. Flecks of spittle flew with the vehemence of his accusation. “You have kidnapped my queen—stolen her, practically on our honeymoon, you did! Guards! Kill them!”
Rashnir and Rogis snapped to defensive positions, but no one made any move to obey the king’s order. Because of the command’s obvious absurdity the guards gave it no heed; they were accustomed to Harmarty’s outbursts of random insanity.
“Bah!” Rogis stepped forward. “You know that Kelsa has always been opposed to your pursuits. You have not even attempted to woo her; rather, you wooed her father.” The comment provoked stifled laughter from the court, even though the statement had not been made to offend Harmarty’s manhood. Harmarty turned red, fuming with anger.
Rogis continued as his former student bristled. “Mind agreed to give her to you against her will, but she loves another. Can you not respect love? Have you loved nothing but yourself? Think of your father, Harmarty; he loved you, remember that and respect that. Respect Kelsa and her love for Rashnir.”
Harmarty paused, introspective at the mention of his father. His posture slumped a little, but then he hardened his heart and stuck out his chest. “Kelsa will be mine!” he raved at the top of his lungs. “She loves me, not some pretender! Now get out!” He slumped back into his throne.
The two moved to quickly exit, departing awestruck by the insanity of the situation. They’d nearly passed through the doorway when Harmarty called out in a childlike voice, “Rogis?” It carried the same inflection of a scared child whose parents had left him in a dark room.
Rogis turned and stood in the threshold. Harmarty rushed up to him. He placed a sealed
letter in his hand. “Please give this to Kelsa.” He smiled at Rogis like an infatuated schoolboy; Harmarty scowled and hissed at Rashnir before running back to his throne. Suddenly like another person, he turned and assumed his most regal pose. Leveling his gaze at them, he placidly reminded them, “I told you to ‘get out.’”
Rashnir and Rogis left the building, whistling incredulously through their teeth. They mounted their horses and departed, heading for Rashnir and Kelsa’s home in the neutral town of Grinden. They fled the madman’s castle as quickly and quietly as possible.
Only once they’d finally galloped into the open highways did Rashnir speak. “He is not sane is he?”
“Not even close. He’s gotten worse every year.” Rogis sighed, still mulling over one of Harmarty’s remarks, “The king’s ‘everything?’ He’s been denied only this one thing and become consumed by the desire to attain it. He’ll stop at nothing to acquire Kelsa, of this I am sure.” The two journeyed onward, discussing what might be done about the situation. Their conversation kept mostly cathartic, dialogue let them vent their anger over the situation.
Eventually, they broke the seal and read the letter addressed to Kelsa.
My Dearest Kelsa,
I know now the severity of the situation, that this brute Rashnir has taken you captive, but do not fear. Your brave warrior king is coming for you. Ten thousand Rangers could not stop me from coming to you.
Do you remember that time we first met? You were undoubtedly drawn to my handsome features and charisma, but I tell you that our love goes even deeper than that: your very soul is knitted to me—you are mine.
Take this to heart and remember that I will stop at nothing to free you from this monster and bring you into my bedchamber. I am coming, lover.
—King Harmarty
Dusk had settled by the time they crossed onto Rashnir’s land. It wasn’t until then that the two finally felt safe from the unhinged king. Rogis watched Rashnir mount the steps to his house. Dane came out and dutifully led Nikko to the stables.
“Don’t worry,” Rogis said, trying to comfort his friend. “You are far more popular in these parts than the King is. Even his own people, the citizens of Jand, hold you in higher regard—and the people are where the crown’s only real power lies. After all, you are my most skilled Ranger. The best of the best.” Rogis turned his horse and galloped away, making enough speed to find him home before the night drew too deep.
Rashnir turned and entered his own house and climbed into the arms of his fiancé.
Normal life resumed for only the next few days. Kelsa and he had begun making final wedding plans.
Five mornings later, Rashnir rose and went about his daily routine. He walked to the stable to prepare Nikko for a ride into Grinden. Rashnir owned many horses. But of all of the prized animals he owned, Nikko had always been his favorite.
A spacious enclosure, several horse stalls lined the south wall of his stable adjacent to the horse-and-rider sized door that let the animals into a penned grazing area. Tightly bundled sheaves of straw and hay leaned against the north wall, stacked to the open rafters where riding tack and grooming tools dangled. He kept the main floor mostly clear so horses could be easily groomed or saddled.
Rashnir entered through the east entrance; his stride broke a shaft of sunlight cast by the open door. When he bent to grab a saddle from its rack, as he’d done so many times before, his peripheral vision spotted Nikko acting agitated in his stall. The light shifted subtly. Rashnir instinctively fell forward and twisted to his right, bringing his right arm up. A long, curved blade sank deep into the thick, leather saddle right behind him as a dark figure dropped silently from the rafters. The sword would have otherwise pierced Rashnir between the shoulder blades.
The assassin wore a tight, thin mask and leather armor, all stained black. Pouches and clasps held various assassin’s tools and weapons tight, keeping them accessible, while keeping them from clinking against each other and making him silent.
Rashnir planted his left hand on the saddle rack and lunged with his right. He grabbed the top edge of his assailant’s armor near the edge of the man’s throat. He pulled him down and brought his leg to bear under the assassin; Rashnir kicked and flung the attacker against the east wall with the springboard maneuver.
Snapping into a ready stance, Rashnir assumed a defensive posture. The assassin stood and stepped into the shaft of light, offering his prey only his silhouette. Keeping the light against the assassin’s rear partially momentarily blinded Rashnir.
“Who are you?” Rashnir demanded.
“I am Shimza the Lesser. I am here to kill you.” With a flick of his wrist, the silhouetted assassin jumped to his left, into the shadows where Rashnir’s eyes could not adequately track him.
Just as quick, Rashnir anticipated his move and pulled on the sword that skewered the saddle next to him. He jerked the saddle up, along with the sword. Rashnir used it to catch a trio of shurikens; they lodged deep into the underside of the saddle.
Rolling onto his rear, Rashnir used his feet to force the saddle apart from the blade. He pried with enough force to throw the saddle in the direction of his attacker.
Rashnir somersaulted to his left just as Shimza brought a second curved blade down. Rashnir rolled into position, finally armed and ready. He and Shimza could fight on even terms.
For a moment their eyes locked. Like a lightning strike, their souls connected in that intense gaze. They sized each other up, searching for fear or weakness, looking for the most opportune moment to strike.
Rashnir’s eyes hardened and Shimza’s pupils shrank fractionally. They both knew who would emerge victor. Rashnir jumped into the fray, fully pressing the offensive. Shimza could not help but parry in flurries; the advantage of surprise was lost and the situation had turned. Shimza blocked and moved; he deflected blows and took only fleeting chops and swings at Rashnir—offensive blows used to try and give him distance to regroup.
It was no use. Rashnir brought his sword to bear time and again as Shimza blocked over and over, barely withstanding Rashnir’s sword arm. In a planned moment of opportunity, Rashnir delivered a kick to his opponent’s abdomen. The force of his blow turned Shimza ninety degrees and dropped him to his knees; Rashnir drove his sword into the base of the assassin’s back.
Shimza grabbed at the hilt of the sword as Rashnir ran it deep, piercing all the way through. He picked up the blade that Shimza dropped and pointed it at his enemy’s neck, ready to take the killing move with any provocation. With his left hand, Rashnir grabbed Shimza’s mask and pulled it off, burning the features of his attacker’s face into his memory.
Shimza howled and squealed like a stuck pig. The blade had done severe damage, but was not a mortal wound provided he got help quickly.
“Kill me now, Ranger!” Shimza spat.
“Who hired you?” Rashnir demanded. “Tell me or this will be far worse than it needs to be.”
Shimza snorted and rattled off a string of expletives. Rashnir slightly nudged the hilt of the sword in his prisoner’s midsection; Shimza screamed and shuddered over.
Rashnir walked calmly and purposefully to the east wall and gathered a few of the more interesting grooming tools, items that would aid in his interrogation. The assassin’s eyes bulged as Rashnir brandished a rusted spiral currycomb and a chiseled hoof pick.
Kelsa and Dane could only guess what was happening as they looked to the stables. They heard a long series of unfamiliar screams coming from within and neither dared to go and check. Minutes later Rashnir walked back through the main doors; blood splatters slicked his arms and face.
“Dane,” Rashnir spoke with unnerving calm, “I need you to have a servant saddle Nikko and clean the stables for me. I want you to make sure that the house is safe; barricade everyone within. Keep the place secure. Everyone’s safety depends on you.” Dane nodded and scuttled off to make arrangements.
“What’s wrong?”
concern flooded Kelsa’s voice.
“Harmarty has hired bounty hunters to kill me and deliver you to him.” Rashnir went inside the house and headed for the armory. On his way he dispatched another servant to ride out and fetch Rogis.
Rashnir tore through his arsenal as if a man on fire. He quickly decided what might be needed for a journey of this sort. Rage and resentment beckoned him to walk headlong into the enemy’s fortress and give the king an inconvenient ultimatum at the end of a sword.
Kelsa stood in the doorway, watching her man do what he did best. Rashnir paused, knowing that she studied him.
She quickly guessed his plan. There is no doubt he could strike down Harmarty; the man is a weakling and a poor fighter, plus the people love the Rashnir who had grown into something of a minor celebrity. The people do, however, respect tradition and Harmarty is the eighth generation of royalty in Jand.
Rashnir shared her thought, but discarded it. He would do whatever was required to safeguard his love.
He pulled a chain shirt over his tunic and began to pull on his other armor. Rashnir retrieved his finest breastplate from its stand and Kelsa approached. He turned so that she could help strap it into place, which she did affectionately. He sheathed a fine longsword behind his back; it had belonged to a great king many years prior. He also sheathed a shortsword in reach of his left hand. Around his waist, Kelsa strapped a pouch with bolts for his crossbows. They looked up when they heard Rogis’ heavy footsteps at the entrance to the armory.
Rogis stepped in and met their gaze. “This is foolishness, you know. There must be some way other than storming his castle.”
Rashnir gave him a hard stare, “Then why are you dressed for battle?”
Rogis similarly wore his best armaments. He nodded an assent. “Because I cannot let you fight this battle alone. This is what I live my life for; it encompasses all three things that I know and hold dear: fighting, love, and family.”
The Kakos Realm Collection Page 7
